


Fire Emblem Drabbles

by Sevi (KelSevi)



Category: Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelSevi/pseuds/Sevi
Summary: A series of drabbles and roleplay solos I've written about characters in the Fire Emblem series. Most of these are products of, or based on, roleplay I've done on Twitter, and so may not be entirely canon.I had a series that was focused on Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia prior to this one, but I was unhappy with it, so I am redoing it to be more general. Consider this to be a reupload of some of those works, as well as an update with others that I have done since then.





	1. way of the world.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python learns about the way of the world, the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia  
> Characters: Python, unnamed high-class children (unnamed), Forsyth (mentioned), Forsyth's father (mentioned)

"Hey, hey, look who it is! It's that carpenter boy!"  
  
"What, really? Out here? Doesn't he know he's way out of his league?"  
  
"Yeah. But this isn't his land to mess with however he so pleases. We ought to teach him a lesson."  
  
...  
  
He was just reading by the side of the road, that's all it was. A big, scary tome of a book - over a hundred pages, which was about as high as he could fathomably count - was saddled in his lap, and up 'til this point he had just been idly flipping through the pages, searching for words he could read in the mass of technical jargon. Reading was pretty tough, even with Forsyth acting as his would-be teacher, but he could manage well enough on his own. Pa said he was plenty smart, after all.  
  
But, no matter how smart he was, there was no way he could read a political text about the history of Zofia without considerable help. He had thought to just sneak out with it, give it a quick read, and come back with tons of new knowledge that he could put to use right away, but for an ten-year-old this was just too much! He hoped Forsyth's father wouldn't be too mad when he returned it.  
  
...Python's concentration was broken, when he heard the snap of a twig from right behind him. Fearing the worst, he whipped around and was met with several teenagers. Three, to be exact - aged anywhere from twelve to fifteen.  
  
He recognized these kids. They came into the village often to flaunt their wealth and taunt the poorer ones.  
  
"Hey, carpenter boy," the eldest one sneered. "What're you up to out here?"  
  
"Yeah, what'cha up to!?" the youngest parroted. She carried a commoner's dialect; naturally, since she's always followed her brother to the village. The middle one lightly hit her shoulder with the back of his hand and shushed her.  
  
For their potential antics, Python wasn't much in the mood. He frowned and instinctively drew in his legs a little closer. "I ain't doin' much," he began, holding a soft (albeit shaky) tone, "jus' readin'. Whaddya want?"  
  
"Ohoho! The carpenter boy says he can READ! What a laugh!" The eldest stepped closer, tall and looming. His hands were on his hips, and his little lackeys followed right behind him. "So? Tell us. What are you reading?"  
  
Python closed the tome and pulled it closer to him. Although nervous, he mumbled, "None of your business," and broke eye contact to look for a way of esca--  
  
-suddenly, he felt his book wrested from him, and he returned to the eldest and shot his hands out to latch back onto the tome. He was trying to take it from him! "HEY! Hey! Stop it!"  
  
"Stop what? All I want to do is read the title! Stop fussing, commoner!" The book shook between two parties, but for all of his strength Python couldn't stop someone twice his size from snatching the book from his arms. Faster than he knew, he leaped up to his feet to jump at the eldest--  
  
and was rebuffed by the youngest, knocking him down on his back. "Siddown!"  
  
Text in grimy, rich hands, the eldest flipped it to the front cover, raised his eyebrows, and then snorted in an amused (and very ugly, Python noted) fashion. "Haha, what in Gods names are you doing with something like this, carpenter boy? History!? What do you care about Zofian history, huh?" He turned his gaze down at the boy, waiting for a response.  
  
Of course, it wasn't any of his business to know! But-- but he has the book now, and Forsyth's dad would get angry at him if he didn't return it in one pieces, so...  
  
"I... I'm tryin'a learn," Python admitted, propping himself up on his elbows as he stared up at judging eyes. "For my friend. I wanna make it easier for him to become a knight..."  
  
Between the three of them and their victim, there fell an uneasy silence. Why were they so quiet? The eldest looked to the middle, the middle to the youngest, and then all three shared unassuming glances.  
  
And then... laughter. Rancorous laughter starting from the middle, and the other two joined right in. "Learning? You? You don't have the RIGHT, low birth!" "Don't you know your station!? You and that freak-- neither of you know anything, do you!?" "Yeah, stupid! Stupid!"  
  
They flung insults at him, which stung enough, but then they called Forsyth a peculiar thing: "freak." He spent enough time around these noble kids to have a sense of what it meant, and what it meant was nothing good. His heart pounded, and his fingers began to shake a little, as they curled inward and ripped up thin strands of grass between them. Angrily, he barked, "Sh-shut UP! He's not a freak! You're all jerks, y'know that!? I can't believe you! When I change the world, I-I'm gonna make everyone equal, and then YOU'LL all be sorry, 'cause everyone's gonna get mad at you, and... a-and..."  
  
...and, oh dear. They were looking at him again, but their eyes had changed tone entirely.  
  
Shocked, briefly. That someone so subhuman could speak something so freely. And then cold. Cold, piercing, indignant.  
  
A lesson must be taught to someone who spoke such blasphemy.

...

...

...  
  
The words they shouted at him after that blurred in his head. Each individual letter was clear, clear as day, just as clear as the blood pouring down a cut from his head, coating his forehead in wet dabs and in thin strands down his face. But for some reason he couldn't quite recall them properly.  
  
He'd returned to the village after that, a ripped up book in his hands. They tore page after page out of it in front of him, calling it his 'punishment.' They kicked him down, kicked him clean until they thought he'd stop breathing, and when the finality of death occurred to the eldest they ran away like the cowards they were.  
  
One phrase stuck out clearly to Python as he numbly handed the dirty, torn book to a horrified father.  
  
"This is the way of the world, freak! The likes of you can't ever change that!"  
  
Forsyth's father wasn't mad. Forsyth was - oh, was he ever. Red with rage that someone could dare lay a finger on his best friend! The day after, he bellowed out something about becoming 'the best knight there ever was!' and Python, well, he stood by and watched him train extra hard against the cobbled-together training dummy the two of them had created.  
  
But he felt nothing when he did.  
  


* * *

  
  
Python stared blankly at the ceiling, his arms behind his head and one leg propped up on the knee of the other. If anyone else had been looking, they would never have guessed he just experienced a nightmare.  
  
It wasn't just that experience that broke him. Nah, he'd been bullied far longer before that, and far longer after. It wasn't the bullying that brought him to reality.  
  
It was that they were right.  
  
He rolled his head to one side and continued his blank stare at the ground under him. Their words were long forgotten to him by now, and even if he cared to recall them, it wouldn't matter. He had no more dreams, and he was happier this way.  
  
Yeah... happier. No one can take away from him what wasn't there, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always envisioned something must have happened to Python to make him feel the way he does about dreams, the future, and the fact that he just drifts through life as well as remains resigned to his position in society in spite of speaking out against it. This is just one such scenario.
> 
> This is a fairly old chapter, roughly a year old at the time of writing this, and it shows! Oof.


	2. attached.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python gets lost playing hide-and-seek with Forsyth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia  
> Characters: Python, Forsyth

Python's cries could be heard all around the ditch he fell in.  
  
The date - 586, a scant twenty years prior to the events that would change Valentia forever. What would one day become an archer of great talent and greater respect currently sat huddled, alone and terrified out of his wits. He was curled up against one of the walls of the ditch, bruised legs curled up against his body and small, fat arms appropriate for a five-year-old held them close. He hugged himself, shivered, and cried harder.  
  
How he got into this mess was a bit of a blur. He and Forsyth were playing hide and seek, and he took Forsyth out to the woods because it had more places to hide. Of course their fathers forbade them from wandering too far out from the village, and sometimes Forsyth would nag Python to listen to them because he was a tattletail and a worrywart, but the boy never did listen. Why would he? The woods weren't scary during the day, and he could easily find his way home if he wanted.  
  
But this time, he went out a little further than he was used to in order to give Forsyth the slip. Nothing was on the line but pride, and Python loved to make Forsyth squirm whenever he lost a game. So when he thought to sneak out a little further out, he thought it the most brilliant idea he'd ever had.  
  
Until he fell into a ditch and hurt himself.  
  
He didn't break or sprain anything, not really, but the very shock of falling into an old, unused war trench was enough to frighten him to tears. And now, to that point, this is where he was - alone, scared, and wailing for someone to come find him.  
  
The woods were quiet save for the rattle of insects and an occasional bird's call. A 'caw' or a 'tweet' would pass him by, unconcerned for his outburst. Bugs skittered, plants rustled, and the living world around the young boy continued on as though he wasn't there at all.  
  
Minutes passed. And then Python was absolutely certain no one would find him.  
  
Immediately a hundred million billion thoughts raced through his mind all at once, all to the tune of how stupid he was. Stupid Python! Why'd you have to go all this way out here just to win a stupid game? Now he was lost forever, and he'd be stuck in this hole forever, and no one was gonna find him, and he'd be scared and alone and Pa was gonna be so mad at him for not coming home and, and-- and--  
  
ᴾʸᵗʰᵒᶰ  
  
\--everyone's gonna make fun of dumb old Python for running off on his own, and then they're all gonna forget about him and he's not gonna get to play any more games, and, and,  
  
Pythooooon?  
  
waaaaaaaaah! Someone notice him already! He doesn't want to be alone!  
  
"PYTHOOOOOOON!"  
  
To hear another person's voice so soon, especially one so loud, gave him his second shock for the day. The shock was so great, in fact, that he stopped wailing almost instantly, and through bleary, teary eyes he glanced up and out of the ditch.  
  
Standing at its edge was, of course, Forsyth. Hands on his hips, he peered down into the dark ditch, squinted, and then noticed his small, sad friend curled up in a corner. "There you are! I thought I heard you cryin'! What're you doin' all the way down there?"  
  
"Uu... uuuuuu..." was all the poor kid could utter. He sniffled, secretly grateful that Forsyth had gone to look for him, and he slowly moved to push himself up onto his feet and walk over to the edge.  
  
"Oh, are you stuck down there? Hold on, I'll help you out." And then Forsyth wandered away from the ledge, leaving Python all alone once again. He wanted to yell for Forsyth to come back, because he was scared and hated being alone, but then he didn't have to - his green-hair friend returned moments later further down the trench, waving for Python to follow him along.  
  
So, he did.  
  
The ditch continued down a little ways before it tapered off at an incline, and from here an escape route presented itself. Eager to escape the hole, Python climbed it and stepped out, only to be met face-to-face with his grinning savior.  
  
"There! Now you're free. Are you okay?" Innocently asked Forsyth.  
  
Python, of course, had one response for him: a shudder, a sniffle, and then a sob. He quickly covered his face to wipe away his own tears, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. "I-I... I was so scared, Forsyth! I fell in, and hurt myself, and I thought no one would come save me...!"   
  
And cry he did, until he felt a sudden, strange and peculiar warmth around his being. The boy parted his fingers to peer through them, and saw his companion up close and personal, his arms wrapped around Python in a comforting hug.  
  
"Hey, don't cry! I don't like to see you cry, Python. You don't have to be scared now-- I saved you, remember?"  
  
"B-but--"  
  
"But what? You're safe now! Here, I'll take you out of the woods and fix you up. So don't worry, okay? I won't even tell father about this. How's that?"  
  
"... Mm... okay..."  
  
"Great! Let's go."  
  
Forsyth took Python's hand. Python, still shaken, did nothing and let him, but as they walked through the brush and fallen leaves, he slowly got used to the idea of holding hands and squeezed Forsyth's, just because he could.

 

・・・

  
  
Forsyth put another bandaid on Python's knee. He whimpered, because it stung where he scraped it up, but he promised not to shed any more tears, so he didn't.  
  
"... There. You're all patched up now." He stood up straight and shot another big Forsythy™ grin down at his friend. Python stared right back up at Forsyth, eyes still red and puffy from his crying earlier.  
  
"Um... thank you, Forsyth."  
  
"You're welcome! Now are you all done crying? I wanna see you smile again."  
  
"Smile...? But I don't feel like smiling."  
  
"But you should smile!" Forsyth took a seat besides Python, and then kicked his feet against the dirt-y ground sporadically. "You don't have a reason to be sad anymore."  
  
"I don't?" His attention was 100% dedicated to his friend. He would not take his eyes off of him for even a second.  
  
"Nope! 'Cause I'm here for you now. You said you were scared no one was gonna find you, so I won't let you be alone anymore." Forsyth put his hand on Python's shoulder, his grin widening ever still. As though if he grinned hard enough, Python might just start to, as well.  
  
(And, well, he was right. Python couldn't help a little smile creep up on his face after that.)  
  
"Promise? That you won't go anywhere?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Pinkie promise! Starting today, we're besties!"  
  
Besties...! They were besties now! Awesome! Both children laughed, and decided it was time to play another game.  
  


* * *

  
  
Python was very attached to Forsyth, for reasons he couldn't quite explain. For memories he couldn't fully remember, for times long gone and past. And he suspected he would always be attached, no matter what happened. It was Forsyth, after all, who not only put up with his crying and led him away from the woods without a single complaint, but swore to him in children's terms that he would stand by the boy come what may.  
  
Things may have changed since that fateful day. The both of them may have changed drastically, but what hasn't changed, was how much Python loved Forsyth. How much he needed him, how attached he was to his childhood and best friend.  
  
And to think it all started with a ditch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Python and Forsyth were friends for as long as they could remember, but that there had to be a reason why Python specifically is so intensely attached to Forsyth that he would do just about anything for him, even if it meant accepting knightship in his stead to carry on his dreams if he died. This is just one such scenario I envisioned that could explain Python's feelings for Forsyth.
> 
> This is also a really old chapter, over a year old as of writing this! I'm still proud of how it reads, though.


	3. you can't understand us, not really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python examines the world he lives in, and the people around him. He doesn't like what he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia  
> Characters: Python, Clive (mentioned), Forsyth (mentioned), Clair (mentioned)

It wasn't like Python to dwell on past things. Arguments long gone; mishaps and mess-ups; even stray memories that came out of the blue, whether alone or with Forsyth -- none of these things mattered to him in the present. Hell, he preferred that whatever happens in the past stayed in the past, and that no matter what, he would always find a way to move on.  
  
But sometimes, it was hard to move on.  
  
Ever since joining (well, more like being railroaded into joining) the Deliverance with Forsyth, the two of them have met opposition at every possible corner. Looked down upon and spat at, abandoned at the Outpost, and betrayed come Alm and his ragtag group of friends... All things he was familiar with, that he was used to coming from the hands and mouths of nobles.  
  
Nobles.  
  
Just the thought of them stirred a terrible bitterness in his chest that ached and tore at his heart until he felt as though he needed to rip it out of the cavity. It was a special kind of hatred he bore, one he could not rid himself of so easily even if he tried, and he knew it. And anyway, he thought he had every right to hate the rich and privileged. A scar inscribed on his forehead, hidden by the tangled tufts of hair hanging down over his face like bangs, was hard, physical proof - all the proof he needed to tell him that they were dangerous.  
  
Even someone so kind and open as Clive.  
  
The last time they had a heart-to-heart, he learned so much about the man that he was both gladdened and saddened to discover. On the one hand, he was able to come to an understanding with him. He reached out and told him about the Deliverance's state of affairs. About why he acted the way he did, and why Clive was not quite as fit for leading an army of sticks-and-stones folk as Alm was. And in a way, it lifted some of the burdens of his chest, to be able to describe as eloquently as he could manage the differences between the haves and the have-nots.  
  
On the other hand, it merely acted as a way to further the rift between them, too. Clive, like all privileged, believed their privilege to be the natural order of things. Kingdoms have always been, so they believe, and so that is how they must continue to operate. They don't have any idea what it must be like to live outside of carefree comfort. What it's like to toil not just for success, but for life, for a chance to survive in a world designed to beat down the downtrodden. And not only do they not understand, but they don't understand how to sympathize, either.  
  
Nothing Clive told him felt real or genuine. Logically, Python KNEW it was, because if there was anything Clive was, it was earnest, but the way he spoke... Perhaps it was simply a thing all nobles shared. Their words always sounded hollow and fake, and he never could tell anymore if it was because he could no longer trust them. He felt he was right to not trust them anyhow.  
  
"But I CAN believe all that and still have tremendous respect for you," he told Python. And perhaps that was true, in a way; Forsyth would not have been appointed lieutenant if that wasn't the case, and neither would he have been 'taken care of', as his best friend so aptly put it.  
  
But that's all it was to him. Lip service. What was gonna happen after the war ended, huh? Maybe everyone who enlisted and served would be given a shiny medal of some time. Maybe offered the chance to rise in rank and escape poverty. Hell, the luckiest ones might themselves become noble! What a chance in a lifetime!  
  
... And then, what of those who did not participate? Who could not? Those who died in the war-- would their families be compensated? Would such an opportunity continue after the war, or was it a one-time deal exclusive to the war? Clive said he still believed in a structure where nobles and commoners existed, in the first place -- a structure that necessitated excessive hardships for some, which allowed others to profit off of their hard work.  
  
What would be done for the poor? Of course nothing would be done to the rich; threatening nobles is simply out of the question. And it's not easy to change peoples' mindsets; many would simply continue on in spite of decrees of equality and peace, using the commonfolk like they were cattle and sheep.  
  
Aaah... he knew that if he asked Clive any of this, he'd simply scare the knight. He's a weak and easily-shaken man when it comes to his status. All nobles were; in order to even talk to them, one had to be gentle, so not as to hurt their fragile ego. Normally, he wouldn't care, but he wasn't looking to see the business end of Clair's lance a second time around. And anyway, it was usually advantageous to suck up to whoever was in charge so they wouldn't set a death sentence hanging over his head.  
  
...  
  
Ugh. So much thinking was making his brain hurt. But he couldn't help it; thoughts raced through his head one after another like a rain of arrows falling from the skies above. And it was hard to not think about all this - after all, it wasn't just his head that was on the line. He had Forsyth to consider, too.  
  
Forsyth, who followed Clive's every move and action. Who pedastaled him, and who lived and breathed by every creed the noble splurged as if it something new and unheard of. Whose eyes grew wide and glistened every time he heard his name called, and whose mouth grew into a great pearly grin at every compliment. He made no secret that he adored the man he advised, and has made it clear as day he would martyr for the cause if Clive simply asked for it.  
  
Python could never understand that kind of thinking. The kind of total devotion to someone who did not, would not, and could not understand you... why? What could a sorry nobody like him hope to gain from sucking up to a blue blood? The two of them fought for silver and a chance for recognition, and earned nothing but bare bones and vile looks cast in their direction. What made Forsyth think this was going to be any different?  
  
It wouldn't be. He had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn't be, but there was no persuading Forsyth out of it. All he could do was go along for the ride and hope he could keep him safe from the horrors of the world as long as possible. Reality was coming for them both, and fast, and all he could do was laugh it off, grin and bear it. He was good at that kind of thing.  
  
But it would tear Forsyth apart to be handed one big loss after another. His heart couldn't handle that kind of stress.  
  
Python knew how this would end.  
  
It wasn't gonna be pretty.  
  
...  
  
He groaned and then set his hands on his face, letting a growly sigh slither through his fingers and the spaces between each palm.  
  
So many thoughts and feelings were pent up in his mind, and he had nary a soul to express them to. Forsyth would hear nothing against his precious Sir Clive, and the rest of the nobles he knew would not take well to his thoughts. (Again, Clair came to mind. He shuddered.)  
  
Perhaps Alm and the others might be more willing to hear him? But he didn't know them well, and several of them seemed apt to blabbing to the very nobles he wished to keep his mind secret from. So then...  
  
Ah, whatever. He was used to keeping himself closed off. If he simply shut others out, he was safe from the ridicule and pain that came from overthinking a dried up, buried dream he carried with him for so, so long. There was no point in talking about it anyway.  
  
The world doesn't change for a couple of dreamers. It may allow them to exist a little longer, but with the way things are now?  
  
They could never understand, and he was fairly certain they didn't want to.  
  
How he loathed nobles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in to better explore Python's complex relationship with Clive (as of their DLC support), Forsyth's idolization of Clive, and his disdain for nobles in general.
> 
> This is about a year old as of writing this, but I still like it a lot.


	4. cats.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luthier loses stability, and gains a new interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia  
> Characters: Luthier, Delthea, unnamed cat

Luthier doesn't remember when he started liking cats.  
  
He didn't always like them. That wasn't to say he disliked them; rather, he simply felt neutral about them, as he did most animals. They existed, and so did he, and they were very separate things that rarely, if ever, crossed paths.  
  
And, for the most part, he was fine with that. But, they do say experiences exist to change your life, and for his part, his life certainly was inexplicably changed when he expected it least.  
  
It was no surprise that he was not well-liked around the village. Most of the boys around loved playfighting with sticks and cobbled-together swords and lances. Quite aggressive sorts, but childish all the same, as children tended to be. The only ones who did not participate in such barbaric acts were those who had to help their parents work, or...  
  
Luthier.  
  
He stayed inside often, not because he had to but because he chose to. He'd always been somewhat odd, but for reasons no one could really put their finger on. His mother claimed he would grow out of it, and everyone believed her; a reclusive nine-year-old was not totally unheard of, especially if he had separation anxiety.  
  
But then the oddness never went away. Delthea was born, and Luthier became all the more determined to stay inside to see her, raise her, help her walk. Rare was it for any child outside of his home to see him, and when they did, he never had much to say to them. Certainly, he knew they existed, and he knew he existed, and that was as much as he needed out of anyone. They were not his parents, or Delthea, and he did not need anyone outside of immediate family.  
  
At the stroke of seventeen, tragedy struck. He and Delthea would lose everything. Delthea, her sweet and loving mother, and Luthier his only conscious tether and comfort to the living, waking world. No longer could he hide behind her words, her promise that he would "grow out" of his strangeness, her sweet and tense love that asked he wander past the fort but still be welcomed in it for as long as time would tell. He was yet young, and her much younger still, at a tender eight years of age.  
  
And they were now all alone.  
  
Well, not quite. Delthea was every bit the chatterbox as advertised, and she oft spoke for the both of her and Luthier. At first, children chided her for being related to such a weird brother, but when they realized she was nothing like him and more, the teasing stopped immediately.  
  
At her insistence, Luthier would say more than a simple, distant 'hello' to the other boys of the town. She would sit down with him and teach him things that people did, phrases that people would say. Even at her young age, she seemed to understand and pick up on language much better than he did, and she was all the better for it. As such, every so often he would ask about others' day, how they were, so forth.  
  
So, when he was invited along in a very particular friend group he recalled seeing time and time again growing up, a part of him felt... well, ecstatic. Surprised, of course, but also joyful.  
  
'Perhaps now,' he thought, 'I will be accepted. I will no longer be seen as an outcast. I will be free to pursue my studies without Delthea telling me how weird people think of me.'  
  
And so he was happy.  
  
And so he thought little of the jokes they spoke of him.  
  
And the little physical pranks they played on him.  
  
And the teasing, and shoving, and laughter. Sometimes it hurt, but this was all simply how friends acted, right? They did that to each other, too.  
  
It was fun.  
  
Was.  
  
Then Delthea helpfully informed him that they were making fun of him and bullying him.  
  


* * *

  
  
He wasn't an emotional kind of guy, but here he was anyway, curled up on the ground of his room with a tome wrapped up in his arms. He locked the door, and while Delthea spent a great deal of time banging on it and asking to be let him, for the moment she seemed to have given up. Better for him; he'd rather she not see him for the wreck that he was. Being her older brother, and last living relative either of them knew about, he had to be strong.  
  
But what did he know about being strong? He just spent the past couple of months being lied to for the sake of some dirty, dirty joke. His naivety, taken advantage of. All he could really trust in were his books. He knew that from day one, didn't he?  
  
Luthier wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve, and then again, and again, and again. They wouldn't stop coming, and every so often his breath would hitch and he swore he could start whimpering and blubbering again, but it never came beyond a heavy lump in his throat that tired him out.  
  
Why was he like this? Why was he so weird? He didn't mind being alone, or lonely, but for anyone to be so cruel...! He would stay locked up inside for the rest of his days if he could! And maybe he would, too! Maybe he should stay inside! He felt monstrous and despicable, like his very existence was a betrayal of every lovely, flowery word his mother had ever called him. Perhaps she was simply blindsided by her love for her only son? What a sad fate. If only she knew the truth. Maybe then he would not have been lied to; maybe then he might have known the truth.  
  
That he was just one big, fat, fakey faker liar idiot bumbling m--  
  
... muh?  
  
In the maelstrom that was his upset thoughts, Luthier caught something out of the corner of his eye. He almost didn't catch it; it was obscured through his tears, which simply would not stop dribbling out of his eyes no matter how he wiped them away. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he tilted his head up toward the window to his room. It had been left open, to let in some of the cool autumn air after the remnants of a mild summer heat hung low in the house.  
  
There, on the sill, was a furry animal. Stark black fur complemented brimming yellow eyes as it stood, at first alarmed, balanced on the sill. Some commotion outside caused the animal to glance back outside, then back into the room, and then with a sound that resembled a yell and the crash of an object (a ball?) just below the sill, it leaped into the room.  
  
It landed on the ground perfectly on soft, tiny little paws, and then stared at Luthier. Luthier, knowing no better, stared back. Both sat, frozen in place, watching the other in a state of startled confusion. Who was this? the question was begged. But the other could not, and would not, answer.  
  
To Luthier's credit, he did not start crying again until the creature slowly relaxed on its end of the room, sitting its plump bottom down on the ground and flicking its tail behind it. He was not sure what to make of the animal, but it would leave before long. No animals were particularly gracious creatures, and once this one has had its fill of temporary safety within Luthier's home, it would leave again, simple as that.  
  
Of course it would. Everyone left Luthier at some point. It was only a matter of time, and a sleuth of complicated circumstances would ensure its inevitability.  
  
. . .  
  
He didn't know when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, a fuzzy little creature was curled up at his side.  
  
At first he was baffled. Why had the animal not left yet? The sun was setting now; surely those rowdy children from earlier had left. Surely it could leave whenever it wanted. So then, what prompted it stay?  
  
Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a cat. Its short, black fur was glossy in the dying sun's rays, and it looked to be well-fed - that meant it belonged to someone, or at the very least lived in a barn and likely fed upon the mice there. His mother always used to talk about how reliable barn cats were, though they were also free spirits that wandered wherever they so chose.  
  
Did this free spirit decide to take pity on him?  
  
Cautiously, Luthier reached down to touch its fur. He began at its back, two fingers pressed on either side of the spine, and he dragged downward with the gentlest of motions. A sound poured out of the cat just then, like a "bmrmrmlbblr," a sound he could not formulate with even the best of onomatopoeia. Nonsensical as it seemed, something about it felt... comfortable. Endearing, really, and kind. The cat liked the pet, and so Luthier offered another. And another. And another, soon, until his hand was running over soft fur from head to tail.  
  
What a wonderful animal. He was unaware such a caring creature existed.  
  


* * *

  
  
From that day forward, the cat came to visit, sometimes.  
  
Luthier never learned its name, or whether or not it belonged to anyone. So far as he was concerned, the cat came of its own volition, for his sake and his sake alone. So, he took to calling it his friend, instead.  
  
He learned that his cat friend enjoyed treats, and he fed it dried meat and fish every time the little beast came in through the window. And every time it visited, it would join him wherever he sat in his room - on the ground, at his desk, on his bed - and slept.  
  
He came to appreciate the comfortable silence that came with his newfound friend. It was every bit as comfortable as the first day they met, without any of the pain to boot.  
  
Ah... that fateful day brought many new things for Luthier. He loved cats. More than anything else in the entire world that wasn't Delthea or magic, he loved cats. Cats would never judge him, or make fun of him, or hurt him, or lie to him. They simply did not have it in their programming.  
  
They were very wonderful creatures, indeed. Companions that he could trust in, confide in, and follow as though they themselves had a creed to which they abided by. In some ways, he tried to be a cat himself; not just any kind of cat, but the one that came to him and saved him from a lifetime of self-disdain.  
  
Perhaps if he could be that quiet strength for others that that cat was for him, he could... be liked. Genuinely liked.  
  
He would very much like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write some of my headcanons for Luthier in a single solo, such as that I think he's autistic, that he's Delthea's sole guardian, and why his first and only friend was a cat.
> 
> I wrote this about a year ago, although I'm not as happy with it as I'd like to be.


	5. you're not a child anymore.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berkut learns that he has to grow up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia  
> Characters: Berkut, Berkut's mother (mentioned), Rudolf
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> [POTENTIAL] SPOILERS  
> \--> VERBAL ABUSE / CHILD ABUSE MENTION/ALLUSION

"No, Berkut! Stop crying! What is wrong with you!?"  
  
Her tense voice still rang loud in his ears, and her cutthroat words brought more pain than tears he could muster.  
  
"You have to stop crying! You're going to be emperor someday! How could you ever hope to be emperor if you can't do this one thing!?"  
  
Emperor? What use did he have for a title like that? It was just what he was supposed to be, of course, he knew that-- everyone in his family was big and important, and lords were big and important, but then...  
  
Why was this so hard, then? Why couldn't he do what his dear, loving mother asked of him?  
  
"You have to stop crying, Berkut. Stop crying."  
  
He tried. He has tried so many times to make the tears stop flowing, but then his heart began to pound every time he recalled her hands on his shoulders, gripping so tight he could feel the nails against his skin through his shirt, and then he remembered the stern, disappointed, and almost - but not quite - angry expression on her face, and, and...  
  
He couldn't keep disappointing her like this. But he wasn't good at anything she asked him to do. Horse riding was impossible, for the towering beasts terrified him; he was far too young to spar with swords yet, and his hands shook every time he held the training sticks; and goodness forbid he ever tried to be himself where anyone else could see him. Laughing and giggling was admonished. Running and playing? Heavens forbid he even thought about it. And anything, anything at all, outside of what was asked of him?  
  
No, no, everything had to be perfect.  
  
And Berkut couldn't do it.  
  
He ran away from training session today, all the way back to his room, so he knew he would be admonished again in time, but he didn't care. Not this time. He just, needed time away from it all, just needed a little time to cry and cry and cry until his hands and the ruffled cuffs of his shirt were soaked with tears and snot, and his throat raw from stifled, concealed wails-- he was still learning how to cry silently, after all.  
  
But all of that came to a sharp halt, when he heard the clatter and tap of heavy armor rustling nearby. His breath hitching, Berkut held his sobs in and quickly wiped away his face with his sleeves.  
  
The armor-bearer clunked and clacked in the hallway, coming closer and closer and closer still to his door, and the closer it drew, the more scared and numb he felt inside. His heart thumped, but his blood ran ice cold, and he knew, he KNEW, as soon as they caught him, he'd be in big trouble, really really big trouble...  
  
...  
  
...!  
  
He first saw the heavy armor in the doorway before he saw the rest of him, and it's what caused Berkut to sit up perfectly straight and rigid on his bed. His dark steel eyes, red still from shedding tears, stared in anticipation, waiting, waiting, waiting--  
  
but then, the sight of a medallion on the armor's chest, followed by long white hair and a kind and familiar face following, brought momentary ease to the young prince's heart.  
  
"Uncle...?"  
  
Rudolf paused at the doorway, his cold expression meeting Berkut's meek one. Berkut always expected it to stay cold, the way it did whenever he spoke to his men, but here it softened just slightly enough that the deep creases in his face loosened up and the stern expression he usually wore vanished in an instant. It was such a minute change, but...  
  
"Berkut," he responded coolly, and then took a step toward the door to enter the room, but... momentarily, paused to glance down either hallway. Was he checking for something? Berkut could never tell.  
  
"Back from training so soon? You're supposed to be there a while longer."  
  
Eep! He knew! Evading his eyes, the prince glanced elsewhere and swallowed thickly. He sniffled. "Y-yes, Uncle... sir. I, I was."  
  
Rudolf's eyes narrowed. "Did you leave again? Your mother has been quite upset about it as of late."  
  
"Y-yes, sir."  
  
"Care to tell me why?"  
  
"..."  
  
It was the same as always, really. From Uncle, from mother, from the many knights who tried to approach him similarly... it always ended the same. More tears threatened to take away Berkut's sight, and all he could think to do was blink them away and sniff again. Gods, he already hated looking so weak and gross in front of his own mother, but he wouldn't DARE to the man he looked up to so much...  
  
Sniff. "I-I... couldn't do it... I can't do it, Uncle... M-my horse got spooked, and I lost control, a-and, and, I just-- I just...!"  
  
Hic. H-hh, no, don't start crying again, stop it, you have to stop, or else! You can't cry anymore, Berkut, you can't...!  
  
The clatter of armor brought him back, but only for a moment. Bitter, salty water blurred the world, and he could barely hold back a choked whine as it wrung his throat, and then another blending in with the sharp taps of armor right next to him.  
  
Clang--clat, clatter, sniffle, shuffle, cough-- whimper.  
  
Berkut bowed his head, trying to hide himself away. His fingers dug into the fabric of his pantlegs, and then the touch of a padded glove on his back. The gentlest, kindest rub he'd ever felt, along his back... Followed by another, in a comforting circular motion...  
  
Why didn't mother touch him like that anymore?  
  
Berkut crumbled into shivering sobs, no longer caring to hide his tears. In his shaken state, he whimpered out a simple, regretful,  
  
"I'm sorry..."  
  
Rudolf said nothing.  
  
For a while, the two sat just like this, Berkut crying and Rudolf comforting, until the worst of it ceased and Berkut was rubbing away the last of the tears from his exhausted eyes. Still he could not look Rudolf in the eye, but Rudolf had his focus directly on the boy.  
  
In a voice the prince could only describe as soft, he murmured,  
  
"You're not a child anymore, Berkut."  
  
And Berkut, waveringly, whispered back, "I know."  
  
"The world is a terrifying, terrible place right now. We are merely doing all we can to prepare for the inevitable."  
  
"... I know."  
  
"Someday, you will have to stop running, and face fate head on. Life will not wait for you to catch up, Berkut."  
  
"..."  
  
Carefully, he raised his eyes to meet Rudolf's.  
  
"Will I... ever be strong like you?"  
  
A moment's pause passed between the two. Rudolf slipped his hand away from Berkut's back and returned it to himself, only to hold it out and gently set it on the top of his head.  
  
Such gentle eyes he possessed... They, along with this gesture, betrayed the man's unbreakable exterior. Hidden away under every impressive title Rudolf ever claimed were two grey eyes, and in them Berkut could see sorrow, unending and yet so, so very bittersweet...  
  
Why was he so sad...?  
  
The creases in his face curled into a smile.  
  
"I know you will. But you must keep at it. Hone your skills, and become a proud man worthy of Rigel..."  
  
A proud man, worthy of Rigel...  
  
Yes, that was... That must be what his mother wanted for him, all along. To shape him, in spite of his fears...  
  
It was what Uncle wanted, too.  
  
Berkut managed a weak, forced smile back at Rudolf. And then, carefully, the emperor himself pushed himself up off the floor from where he knelt and headed for the door once more. Once he left the room, he stopped, turned back, and nodded his head once to the prince.  
  
"I will guarantee you reprieve for today, but tomorrow, I want to hear you finish a session."  
  
Berkut only nodded. He was right, after all. Uncle always was. And tomorrow, he would have to work his hardest, even through the fear and tears. He had to, after all.  
  
He wasn't a child anymore. In fact, he probably never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This writing is based on released information from the SOV artbook, Valentia Accordion. This information was never included in the game itself, but expanded upon backstories for characters that never received them otherwise. The artbook suggested that Berkut used to be very timid following the early loss of his father, and cried whenever he was put on a horse, but was toughed up by his mother. As well, the words that Berkut says to Alm during his death sounded very peculiar to me, especially regarding strength and the loss of innocence that Berkut experienced in light of his training to take the Rigelian throne.
> 
> It's just a bad time all around. :(


	6. moment of weakness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seliph enters the forbidden library of Askr to learn the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Heroes - Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War  
> Characters: Seliph, Sigurd (mentioned), Oifey (mentioned), Shannan (mentioned), Edain (mentioned), Deirdre (mentioned)
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> SPOILERS

He never had the chance to meet his father.  
  
This was not news. Anyone who knew anything of the Scion of Light, or perhaps of the Holy King of Jugdral, knew intimately his troubled past and the struggles he went through simply to exist, let alone liberate a continent from evil.  
  
But, there were still stories. Though the Scion of Light's legacy far surpassed his father's, it was indeed the actions of his father that paved the way for freedom and liberation. This man, spoken of only in legend and in reference to the Holy King, lived on as a beloved and fondly-remembered remnant of the past, and as a reminder of the horrors distrust and betrayal can bring.  
  
Even so.  
  
To this day, Seliph still never knew his father.  
  
Text after text stacked high beside him. A flickering flame lapped at its glass confines as it burned away wearily in an oil lamp. And a heavy, weighty tiredness hung heavy and dragged on his limbs, his eyes, his consciousness. He was exhausted, but he still had to know.  
  
These words, they were no key to the many secrets that surrounded his father's past, but they were more trustworthy than what he already knew about him. Sigurd Chalphy was a man beloved by many, but for vastly different reasons. His guardian and tactician, Oifey, saw in Sigurd a trusted friend and brother; his own brother (though not by blood) Shannan saw in him a hero and a father figure. Wherever he went, to anyone who recognized him, they called upon him as the second coming of Sigurd himself; and oh, the stories they all told! Some conflicted, some were mixed, and some loved the man as much as others who were indoctrinated to hate him.  
  
But, none of them were objective. None of them were fact. He could barely even believe the kind-spoken words of Lady Edain, Sigurd's childhood friend and his own adoptive mother. What little she told him, it was through parsed lips and painful smiles, and he couldn't bear the thought of forcing her to tell him more.  
  
(She once told him, through teary eyes, how much he looked like Sigurd. He was only seven then, and he begged Shannan to help him grow his hair out after that incident. He couldn't bear to see her cry over him. Not like this.)  
  
These texts, however, spoke of historical events from an outsider's perspective. Of Sigurd's campaign, of his successes and failures, his travels, and...  
  
Of the Battle of Belhalla.  
  
For a long time, Seliph had felt disconnected from his father's death. He simply knew Sigurd died - that was all. And, so far as anyone else was concerned, that was where the story ended, too. It was too painful for them to remember, and much more painful was it to share this ugly truth with his one and only son.  
  
Yet, now, though he'd heard it a thousand times before, reading it in text now...  
  
No, wait. The text had gotten blurry. What was going on-- why?  
  
A tear streaked down his face, followed by several more, and a tight knot fastened itself in his stomach. Then, another, in his throat, though he forcefully swallowed hot air to keep himself quiet.  
  
He was-- he was crying. Crying over a dead man who died brutally in a vile war led by a vile man, himself left by an even viler monster bent on bringing back the vilest creature of all - Loptyr. A terrible, vengeful god who used his blood for evil deeds, who misled thousands and disturbed hundreds of thousands more...  
  
Sigurd's death was terrible, the text wrote. His death was at Lord Arvis's hands, and eye witness accounts state the last thing he got to see was dear Deirdre's face before being violently incinerated by Fala's flames.  
  
Mother... he got to see mother one last time before he perished. Before most of his companions' families perished. Before he, and every one of his friends lost everything sans each other...  
  
... It was so much to take in. So much pain to reconcile.  
  
...  
  
...  
  
...Seliph put his hands on his face and wiped away his tears. His breathing had become irregular, and small hitches in his breath reminded him he was upset. But, it wouldn't last for long; he promised himself he wouldn't ever dwell on the loss of his father. And, for a long time, he didn't - the fact that he felt anything now, after twenty long years of his life, shocked him.  
  
Letting out a shaky breath, Seliph slowly shut the text, and then pulled it close. It dragged across the table, closer and closer to him, until he tipped it over the edge and pressed it against his chest.  
  
... A gentle whisper followed thereafter.  
  
"Father... I have never received anything tangible of your love.  
  
All I have is a memory of your face... and stories of you.  
  
Please... allow me this moment of weakness. Just for now..."  
  
"I'm sorry..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being that this was for roleplay where Seliph had arrived in Askr as a summoned Hero, it deviates greatly from canon. It was written before Sigurd was introduced to the game, and so at the time Seliph had no way of meeting Sigurd "canonically," insofar as meeting him in the Order of Heroes. Really takes you back, huh?
> 
> This was written over a year ago, earlier than even the Python drabbles, and so the age and attack of the dots might show a little.


	7. the heart of aurelis.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf reminisces about the past he left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Shadow Dragon / New Mystery of the Emblem  
> Characters: Wolf, Roshea (mentioned), Vyland (mentioned), Sedgar (mentioned), Coyote/Hardin (mentioned)
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> [potential, light] SPOILERS

It's been a long time, now.  
  
The wind was not as strong here, deep in the heart of Archanea. Not strong at all, really, compared to the lush breaths of air that washed over the grasslands of his motherland. Granted, there was a little wind, but little it truly was; one only strong enough to brush the leaves of nearby trees and grace his skin and hair with a touch of cool air.  
  
No, it wasn't strong at all; not at all comparable to the harsh breezes of Aurelis that carried petals and stems from lands far away, and with it their voices, too. Whispers and screeches and cracks of wind would howl ceaselessly through the air, bringing with it a free and comforting chaos, guaranteeing one would never be alone in the endless leas. Grasses, taller than he could even stand, had danced to their own tune crafted by the wind, with no care to their neighbors and the life that lived among their stalks.  
  
They cared not if a pup or a man had the mind to move through them, nor had they the manner to let them through - they would be knocked down just the same. And then they would lay in those same grasses, leaving their person-shaped impression in it, as the wind filled all the little pockets of their clothes, ruffled their hair, made them free as the world around them, free as the wind, and above all else, truly alive and well. Cared for by the land, as they had cared for it.  
  
He remembered how it felt, to be young and free.  
  
He remembered, too, the chains that bound him when he was sold as a slave. If he thought on the subject long enough, he could still feel the freezing metal that weighed down his wrists, pinning small hands and rough feet down to the cold stony earth. He'd been a slave longer than most that he knew by at least a year or so, and had survived far more than most knew about him, too.  
  
Memories of that dark time pulsated along his wrists, his arms, his back. Snatchings, cuttings, whippings-- if it was named, it likely happened to him. Whenever he wasn't the subject of the Macedonians' humiliating taunts or grueling work, he was trapped in a cage without the freeing winds, deprived of his one source of life and will. He was but a young man then, bitter and angry and hopeful and so, so very alone.  
  
Of course, living so long in captivity meant one met others of the same fate. First was a young boy, far too young to be ripped from his family - Roshea, he told Wolf in-between shaky breaths. Next was a hardy man called Vyland, named more civilized by the Archanean world and yet still 'tainted' by the very Aurelian blood that made him beautiful. And finally, a man named Sedgar, who rivaled even his own stubborn nature with the days and nights spent rattling the cage, rattling his chains, empowered by his own personal flame and unwillingness to give in. He envied this Sedgar's strength, the way that Sedgar envied his own endurance.  
  
For a long time, they were his only companions. Through travel, pain, humiliation and work, they stuck together. They worked together. If circumstance would allow, they might have even died together, as brothers forged through their own sweat and blood would.  
  
That was when Coyote arrived.  
  
"Can you stand?" were his first words to Wolf. A shaking, starved, humiliated slave at the time, wearing hardly enough clothes on his back to cover his cold body. He, along with his cagemates, had all suffered the same fate as he but it was with him and his emaciated face that the brother of the king himself spoke to.  
  
He remembered crying. Not only out of gratitude, but of fear, of humiliation, that he had to be saved from his own fate by the next-highest order of the land. Sedgar stationed himself behind Wolf and gently pushed him out, and following suit came Vyland and Roshea, renewed with vigor to be freed from their shackles.  
  
The four of them spent that night by Coyote's side, receiving treatment for their old wounds and bandages for their new ones. And it was that night the four of them decided they would serve Coyote, to repay this debt.  
  
...  
  
It's been such a very, very long time, now. The memories were fresh in Wolf's mind, but he could hardly even count the years that had passed since that fateful encounter.  
  
And now, without Coyote by his side-- without Coyote to help lead him, and Sedgar, and Vyland, and Roshea...  
  
The wind kept blowing. Never did it pick up and billow, like in the heart of Aurelis.  
  
And the world was devoid of meaning once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to explore Wolf's relationships in a little bit of depth, as it is mentioned by Roshea that Hardin saved the Wolfguard from slavery. Wolf is noted to be the most attached to Hardin, as he throws himself in battle after battle in New Mystery's end, after losing Hardin.
> 
> :(


	8. his birth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forneus bears witness to a new god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia - Fire Emblem Awakening  
> Characters: Forneus, The Creation  
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> [major] SPOILERS

His cradle was always a dark one.  
  
Housed ten floors below the surface of the labyrinth, he had lived in absolute darkness. The choice was not his, but that of Forneus - the father, the angel, the martyr who had been cast out by humanity for committing sins so grievously foul. And, ironically, it was for his sins that he gave up his life, to birth the most sinful creation of them all:  
  
The wings of despair.  
The breath of ruin.  
The fell dragon, Grima.  
  
But there had been a time where Grima did not know this. Did not know the name of Forneus, the mad scientist. Did not even know his own name.  
  
There was once a time that Grima had known nothing at all.  
  
・・・  
  
"Are you hungry, my little Grima?"  
  
Six tiny eyes, three on each side of his small, rounded face, flickered in and out of existence in the dark alter he was kept. No light had yet penetrated the absolute darkness he lived in, but from his confinement he could see a tiny flicker across the room, and a figure indistinguishable from the pillars that lined the entrance.  
  
This was his home. This was where he lived. Entrapped in the alter by a tiny cage and his own frail body, Grima lived his days crying gurgled sobs for food, ripping away at the rotten flesh of surface Thabeans, and sleeping.  
  
The light only turned on once every six hours, but he didn't know that. He only knew that it did.  
  
Shuffling into the room, the bearer of the voice - Forneus, he came to learn - approached with a tiny candle in his hands. Hardly sufficient enough to see far around him, but there was an oil lantern set down at the foot of a desk to the left of Grima's cradle. He often watched Forneus work there, while he struggled to crawl around on six fleshy, stumpy, featherless wings for limbs. And even then, his body was so dis-coordinated and so small that he could scarce do much but wriggle in place.  
  
He hardly had the energy to do anything beyond cry and crawl until roughly two days ago. But he didn't know that, either.  
  
To his desk Forneus traveled, slow and cautious. He was an aging man, but not so aged that he couldn't move around. Wrinkles adorned his hands, but what his face looked like, Grima could not tell. The darkness of his cradle was simply too overbearing.  
  
He set down his candle. Turned on the lantern, with some effort. And then, shuffled to Grima's cage. He knelt down, touched the bars of the cage with one hand, and breathed with effort.  
  
"Twice as large as the day before..."  
  
His other hand was occupied with clutching nondescript flesh, one side still covered in skin. Its stench was masked only by the heavy musk of sand and stale air, but it was enough for the creature to catch a whiff of its scent, begin screeching and snapping at the bars. He was hungry, and he wanted to eat.  
  
Forneus drew away his fingers, heaved a breath, and then opened the top of the cage to drop in the flesh. With his long neck, Grima leaned back and caught it out of the air. He dropped it in front of him.  
  
His human stood, speechless. Breathless.  
  
A thought that did not belong to Grima beamed into his head.  
  
"(He will soon outgrow his cage at this rate... He looks much healthier than he did before.)"  
  
Grima dug into the flesh, using his stubs to hold it against the bars of the cage.  
  
"(His feathers are growing in, too. Finally...)"  
  
Swallowed bits whole. Choked them down, his neck waving forward and back as the meat slid down his throat.  
  
"(... And he speaks to me, as well. My perfect being has accepted me... Project Grima has already a success.)"  
  
He flapped his limbs against the ground, excited by his food. His massive horns scraped against the bars and the ground as he ate.  
  
Grima's screams echoed throughout the altar, muffled only by the meat in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before the release of the Valentia Accordion, which went further in-depth with Forneus and Grima's turbulent relationship. Still, though, it gets the job done - a mad scientist, raising a violent baby god in order to become the ultimate life form, while his army of proto-Risen stalk the halls.
> 
> Scary!


	9. root of all evil.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grima crushes the last of his resistance. None left stand in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Awakening  
> Characters: Grima, Robin
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> SPOILERS  
> \--> [major] GORE

"Please... please, gods, stop."  
  
The vessel's voice echoed in his mind, soft and tiny and shaking. A shriveled and broken and antiquated part of him, now that he's assumed full control of the body he was promised for generations.  
  
He ignored its plea.  
  
Before him laid a sea of dead, made up of soldiers and villagers alike. The poor and the noble share a single grave here, surrounded by the rubble and garbage and smoldering remains of what once was civilization. Grima pulls his hands back out of the corpse he had been investigating, hands slick with blood and mucus and the exploded remains of stomach acid burning away at the ends of a torn-open stomach. The acid burned his hands as well, but instead of bringing him agony, he felt ecstasy,  
  
Excitement throbbed in his head. His mind felt hazy and thick, weighed down by bloodlust and trauma, and nary a thought came through his head save the palpable dread that the vessel weakly expressed from time to time.  
  
"All of your friends are dead, vessel. Fighting against me is wasted time and breath."  
  
Having indulged in his most recent violent fit, the fell dragon stepped away from the defiled corpse and began to lick away at his hands, tasting the blood and acid that mingled together in a vomit-inducing combination. It felt good, in a way. Good to him, who was used to living in and hosting such filth in his body that he could exhale it as a breath, but his vessel's body felt otherwise, and he suddenly stopped and hunched over to gag and spit out the foul taste from his mouth.  
  
Again, his vessel's voice begged.  
  
"Stop it. You're going to kill us... Please... you've killed so many..."  
  
Grima coughed thickly, his body - _his_ \- threatening to punish him with regurgitation for lapping at his hand, but it did not.  
  
"There is no 'we'," he growled in response, "and you're long overdue for death yourself. Relinquish your body to me, already."  
  
The vessel's voice gasped, choked a sob, and quieted.  
  


* * *

  
  
Horns have started to grow in.  
  
Grima rolled his hands over the nubs. They were growing in the same as they had in his true form, which pleased him. Although now he looked like one of those little goats he had seen running for the hills as he laid waste to the last of the farms he could find on Valm...  
  
Recently, his tail had begun to set in, too. He didn't think he would be able to bond so thoroughly to his human avatar, but his blood concentration was a touch thicker than even Validar knew. Conditioning the body to accept Grima's own toxic aura must have allowed him to develop where no other dragon has ever been able. He would have loved to test that theory had he thought of it, but since wiping out the last of the Resistance...  
  
Well, no matter. There was no opposition left in the world to stop him. While it left him quite pleased, if not somewhat bored, sometimes there was a pathetic little voice that rang out in the back of his mind, crying:  
  
"Please... stop... please... I-I'm so... scared..."  
  
Its tenacity in the face of loss was annoying. He wished it would just shut up.  
  
"There's nothing left to fight for. Rest, now, and give me what is mine."  
  
"Pl...ease... I'm... sorry..."  
  


* * *

  
  
"If only I were human."  
  
It was a thought that occurred to him more often than he'd like to admit. An absurd notion, right from the beginning - Grima never fancied humans. Never in his life had he any interest in them, and never would he start, either.  
  
They were the root of all evil, he decided. T'was humanity which created him, and humanity which preserved him, and he had no say in either of these events. Was it really his fault that Forneus brought him into creation, or that he was sealed away by the First Exalt, or even that he had a vessel bred so that he could possess it and return to the world and give it the final death it deserved?  
  
He was at no fault for his anger and bitterness. These feelings? They were justified.  
  
So then, why did he feel so empty now, at the end of it all?  
  
He stared down at his hands, gloved but human in origin. These belonged to a human, once. One with his own thoughts and feelings and life. It did not matter what he did, or what he thought and felt, because Grima had long erased him from the vessel, but ever since his voice vanished, he no longer felt as though he was sharing a body. This vessel belonged to him since the day he was born, and nothing would change that fact.  
  
But, ever since the voice vanished... instead of hearing a voice, strange thoughts cropped up in his mind, akin to this one.  
  
"If only I were human."  
  
What would he do as a human? Would he live his life as sinful as the humans he exterminated? Would he participate in their folly and ruin, and suffer as they have?  
  
Would he have companions? Fun? Something to do?  
  
Would be that he had the opportunity to be normal, natural, living and breathing... would he take that chance? Would it have made him happy?  
  
What was it like... to feel happy?  
  
...  
  
He would never know. Maybe he was incapable of it.  
  
Unearthing the root of all evil has left him more empty than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This writing follows my roleplay account of Grima, in a timeline where he wins and slowly crushes Robin's spirit over time. As a result of having possessed Robin for so long, features of himself have begun to grow into the human body, twisting it. Really, I only wrote it to explain why my Grima has physical changes to his body, whereas other accounts did not.
> 
> :(


	10. my name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin calls out from the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Heroes - Fire Emblem Awakening  
> Characters: Robin, Grima (mentioned), Chrom (mentioned)
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> SPOILERS

... He-... hello.  
  
My name is... it's... I'm...  
  
I don't think I much remember anymore. It's hard to say. My thoughts are very... fuzzy, let alone what memories I still possess.  
  
Let's just say I'm not Grima, for right now.  
  
Haha, wow, this is... weird. This feels really weird. I'm breathing again-- and this voice? This is my voice.  
  
This...  
  
This used to be my own body, too. Not the horns, or the tail, or uh, whatever's on my back though-- that's all new. That's not...  
  
That's not mine at all.  
  
...  
  
Gods, it's been so long... I thought for sure I was gone. His voice-- Grima's, I mean-- is very hard to ignore once he starts to speak, and when he invaded my mind, well... It was a hard struggle, but what can you do against an all-mighty despair-driven monster whose blood you share, right?  
  
I don't think I ever gave up fighting him, but at what point is it still worth going on when you're forced to watch yourself slaughter your friends and family?  
  
One  
  
after  
  
another.  
  
...  
  
Grima... I think he thinks he's killed me. And for a while, I thought he did, too. But losing one's voice doesn't mean that you lose your own mind... and, well, he was right. All this time, all along, he was right.  
  
He and I are one and the same. But that means... that I can't die when he still lives, too.  
  
I'm a _part_ of him, too.  
  
... Aha, um... this place that we're in now, it's... this is the Order of Heroes, right? And, so far as I can glean, Grima can't do what he wants here, huh?  
  
That means he's losing control... and he certainly doesn't like that. He's finally being forced to listen to other people for a change, and from the looks of things, I think he's starting to understand, too.  
  
Understand what, I don't know... I don't know where he's gone. He's still here, somewhere, but... hmm.  
  
... Maybe this means that I can...  
  
For my wife... and my children...  
  
Chrom...  
  
............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This writing is based on my roleplay account for Grima, which has expanded to include Robin after a certain event occurred to awaken him. It is a natural response to Chapter 9, wherein Grima destroys Robin's will to live to take his body for himself. It was also written to explore the effect Grima has on a Robin who has lost himself, and failed to beat the Fell Dragon.
> 
> :(


	11. walk a mile in his shoes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin flies in the skies with a body that doesn't belong to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Heroes - Fire Emblem Awakening  
> Characters: Robin, Grima (mentioned)

All Robin has ever wanted to do is die.  
  
It was no surprise, to anyone who might know of his plight. Grima spoke a mighty tale of destroying the world, and no lie-- he was not only fully capable of it, but then actually managed to DO it. The hows and whys of the conversation were lost to the both of them, at this point, but vague, blurry memories told him of his success.  
  
And, on the other side of that, of Robin's utter failure.  
  
His failure to save his friends, his future, and the crown prince Chrom himself. His failure to protect the tiny family he had forged. The daughter he sired, intending for her to live on as a beacon of hope, only to watch her descend into madness as a tool of destruction. The world, on the cusp of life, plunged into a neverending darkness that it would and could never recover from, not with the way Grima poisoned it at its roots.  
  
Grima, using _his_ body. _His_ mind. His _life._  
  
The fell dragon ended all of existence in the same meek human body, loving and intelligent, without fear or remorse. So, of course he wanted an end to it all. Any chance to take back what was ripped away from him and used to steal the last of his light from his world... by the gods, he would take it, even if it meant his own destruction.  
  
Atonement was a path often started, and rarely walked to completion. He would take them both there on his broken legs, if he really had to.  
  


* * *

  
  
For what felt like the hundredth time, Robin took to the skies on six wings that neither belonged to him nor felt real.  
  
Nothing felt real. Moving, breathing, seeing-- every little thing he did had this dream-like quality to it, like time had stopped and any little thing that brushed against him or passed by his face was arbitrary and artificial. It felt different from the way he experienced the world usually, which definitely felt real but dull and drab, and not quite worth living in.  
  
And, not only did the world feel different in his mind, but it felt physically different, too. Or rather, it was Robin in Grima's body what felt different-- disconnected from the living, waking, and breathing world, somehow. Such a difficult sensation to describe...  
  
Landed securely on the ground, he hardly felt much of anything. Even as he pressed bony wing spurs to the ground in a sorry attempt to crawl about, the only thing that told him he was stable was the dull pressure of pushing down, rather than the sensation that he had touched anything at all. If he hadn't known any better, he would have assumed he was afloat rather than crouched to the dirt with three sets of wings battling to stand where they could reach.  
  
The whole concept left him with a profound sense of loneliness. He couldn't even connect with his surroundings, no matter how he dragged his massive, lurching frame. Grass, road, rocky terrain... none of it made a difference against his ripping skin.  
  
But now, soaring just above the castle, a new sensation took him in a way that physical touch simply could not provide for. The emptiness that tore holes in his stomach vanished as he rose higher and higher and higher again still, until he felt a strangely compelling need to come back down into sight of his original body (currently occupied by the dragon whose body he seems to have stolen) and flutter in range.  
  
The tighter the pressure, the less lonely he felt. Or was it the high-pitched whistling of air as it passed over his holes-for-ears? The holes in the mask covering his true face, too, produced metallic noises that could almost be mistaken for a haunting melody, or a lullaby for a rejected dragon without the means to even feel the earth he flies above.  
  
Robin learned, then, that Grima had lost his sense of touch.  
  


* * *

  
  
Even at the dead of night, dark winds rustled the grass in droves under a dimming moon as it shifts from a full one to a quarter. A dragon lay in wait, six eyes blinking in random order as the head pointed idly toward a nearby tent. And, within that tent, a human counterpart which hid away from the world he could not longer control on puppet strings.  
  
Soon, Grima would emerge. And then, they would have to come back together to share that small body he once called his own. Robin's brief autonomy would come to an end, and so too would the suffering of living in the body of his own murderer.  
  
Never would Robin say that the experience was not an enlightening one. More than anything, it taught him about the dragon he was born-- no, *made* for. Had he simply been handed over to be used as a vessel since birth, he would never have come to be, and Grima would have had an easier time growing into his body. To live life as a human... a fake human, wearing a human's skin, but human just the same.  
  
He could never be human, Robin thought. And that thought alone, evoked the most pity he had ever felt for the fell dragon.  
  
But just the same, neither could Robin ever be human because of it. Devoid of opportunities, for he shared Grima's blood and mind... If anyone should be pitied in this situation, it should be him, shouldn't it?  
  
Perhaps they were both pitiable. Neither given the chance to live, and put through a suffering no other living creature could ever know...  
  
He blinked again, and when he opened every last eye he possessed, he caught sight of movement just before the tip of his long, long, long horns.  
  


* * *

  
  
He walked a mile in his shoes, and was left with an understanding no one else could ever have, no matter how they might pick and prod his brain.  
  
He, who learned of a reality more empty and meaningless than he ever thought possible for a single being.  
  
He, who learned the trial and hardship of weakness and the pain of vulnerability in a frail body he was forced to own.  
  
He, of two minds and one shared soul, tied together in a singular body... one he would have to learn to share, to reach his own goals.  
  
To live.  
  
To die.  
  
To learn.  
  
To rest.  
  
To succeed.  
  
For the people he loved.  
  
... May those who judge him, forgive him for his sins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This writing is based on my roleplay account for Grima and Robin, who at this point in the story were struggling with how to properly manage one another as they began to share the same body. For a time, Grima ended up stuck in Robin's body, and Robin ended up stuck in Grima's body, and so Robin made use of his time as a dragon to explore the skies. I wrote this to explore a few of my headcanons, such as Grima's body being horribly diseased and that he is incapable of feeling touch beyond pressure sense, and Robin and Grima's relationship as a "singular being," not allowed to die as per the rules of the Order of Heroes contract.


	12. i have decided to destroy it with my own two hands.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forneus takes it upon himself to extinguish his god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game: Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia - Fire Emblem Awakening  
> Characters: Forneus, The Creation
> 
>  **WARNING**  
>  \--> [major] SPOILERS

Here stood the demon alchemist, Forneus.  
  
His trusty silver knife, impaled handle-deep in the creature's stomach.  
  
The creature he chose to create, against the wishes of all else who looked onward, who stood in his way. The one he lovingly crafted with his two hands. Raised. Made perfect, under his careful study and care.  
  
And then his thoughts, leaving him; as though it were himself he chose to stab and let bleed out.  
  
Three red eyes on either side of the creature's face impressed themselves upon his mind. A sigil as blood-red as the blood pumping in his veins, blotting out his vision, turning all he saw to red.  
  
Three red eyes, on either side.  
  
And so the world went black.  
  


* * *

  
  
Forneus, shaking, crumpled to the ground before the hideous creation. It craned its massive neck downward and stared down at the convulsing body which desperately attempted to fight off the heart and soul of a demon wronged, having spilled the blood of a god.  
  
Pain throbbed at the site of the stabbing, and bile and blood bubbled around the silver knife where it waited, still plunged deep in flesh.  
  
It would hurt for a time. It always did. Such pains were no stranger to the beast, but soon the weapon would be ejected and the wound would heal, good as new.  
  
Stretching out its six wings, the creature floated higher and higher still at the altar it called its home. It had no need to beat its wings to achieve flight, as a mysterious power would carry it up, but the wings provided stability, and so it would gladly stabilize itself to keep a close eye on the collapsed form before it.  
  
It would need all the focus it could garner. For he yet lived, and for the first time, a conversation between fell beast and human would occur.  
  


* * *

  
  
So sayeth the dragon:  
  
"YOU HAVE COME TO KILL ME."  
  
And so beggeth the demon:  
  
"I was afraid! Afraid of what I have made! You were meant to be perfect!"  
  
The dragon, dissatisfied, asketh:  
  
"DO YOU NOT LIKE ME AS I AM? AM I NOT ALREADY PERFECT? I AM BEAUTIFUL, FORNEUS. I AM THE INCARNATION OF WHAT YOU CALL  
  
A GOD."  
  
Stunned, the demon fell silent. Nary a word escaped him, for he was at fault for what the dragon spoke.  
  
Grima is, was, and has always been, perfect. So perfectly imperfect... and imperfectly perfect. The word had lost meaning, but by all respects, it had become what was intended for it--  
  
A perfect being, meant to wage war.  
  
The dragon, sensing such thoughts, struck down with such a fury:  
  
"YOU KNOW NAUGHT OF MY CAPABILITIES. YOU HAVE BETRAYED YOURSELF WHEN YOU LOST FAITH IN ME. AND SO NOW, I COME TO TAKE BACK FROM YOU.  
  
SUCH AN IMPERFECT BEING. YOU CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO HANDLE THIS BODY. ALLOW ME TO TAKE IT FROM YOU, AND EASE YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES."  
  
The demon cried out in protest, but found his voice silenced. His thoughts raced, one after another, but the being had already slithered in, had already impressed itself unto his mind. One by one, his thoughts quelled, and silence became their new companion as the creature and what was once human intertwined into one. His voice, snuffed out, died to obscurity within the hour, eventually devoured completely.  
  
Not much else of him would reman, when Grima finished with him.  
  


* * *

  
  
The body, repossessed and reanimated, shambled around the room as the young dragon followed it about. Switching from body to body was a difficult task indeed, and not one he had yet grown accustomed to. And yet-- watch it move! Watch it sway! Watch each arm move, independently of one another! And now, see how it manipulates the environment about it! What a joy, what a rush, what a test of knowledge!  
  
And speaking of what knowledge he has garnered, oh, what a vast collection this man had in his head! So much that Grima had never considered before, or even knew about - what is this about gender? (He will try it out. He wishes to be a cut above the rest of the alchemist's inorganic scum.) What about the library he possesses? Lacking manipulable limbs, he may instead put to use the new body at his disposal. And, to get there, he will be able to open doors, and enter and exits rooms he so chooses--  
  
Suddenly, free will and freedom of choice become his to command. He had always the capacity to think before, but now, now! The world seemed so vast! A whole new area to explore, even as he lived in the depths of Thabes where he and his creator were locked in!  
  
But for now, he would set aside the body he had taken, and settle at the foot of his altar. His wound hurt, and he would take time yet to recover from the assault.  
  
Oh, but it hurt... it hurt in his stomach, and it hurt in his chest. Turned against, by the one who gave him life... He could never understand it, but this betrayal would sting for generations to come.  
  
The first of many betrayals by mankind, for his first sin - being born, and drawing breath.  
  
Here lay the demon alchemist, Forneus, who set upon the world an inextinguishable evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This writing is based on the information released in the SOV artbook, Valentia Accordion. Special information regarding Forneus's work on The Creation was released here, including his relationship with Grima and his ultimate decision to kill the creature before it grew too violent and unwieldy for him to control. I decided I wanted to write the end result of that, and based some of Grima's reactions on his level 40 lines in Fire Emblem Heroes, wherein he feels betrayed by humans and believes they will never change from being shamelessly pious beings so long as their gods give them what they desire.


End file.
